


The Service of the Body

by wildestranger



Series: The Service of the Body [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange alliances have been forged through the service of the body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Service of the Body

Consider, if you will, the matter of a wizard's debt. They say Muggles have things called debts of honour, and that a man will forfeit his life if he does not honour his engagement and pay his debt. I cannot say that my observations of Muggle life bear the truth of this statement, but be that as it may, a wizard's debt is always a question of honour. Once it is contracted, a wizard must fulfil his obligations and regain his honour, or he must die. Therefore, it would be quite correct to say that a wizard cannot live without his honour.

: :

Longbottom hasn't blinked in the last two minutes. His mouth isn't gaping wide and he has yet to lift a hand to scratch his ear, but apart from that he's the splitting image of _A Squib, Faced With Transfiguration_ cartoon that Draco remembers from his childhood. Even the placid brown eyes and long, pale eyelashes are the same. He wonders why he never noticed this before; he's spent enough time with Longbottom during the war, after all, hiding from Moody in the Order headquarters or foraging for food in the kitchen.

He doesn't voice this thought, however, since Longbottom still doesn't look convinced and Draco is getting desperate.

"Look, I realise this isn't ideal for you, but did I mention the fact that I'm going to die if we don't think of something, die in a horrible and excruciatingly painful way, so if you could snap out of it anytime soon that would be great, cause then we could figure out how to fix this!"

Draco doesn't like silences. They allow his interlocutors time to think.

"Um."

Fortunately, that's unlikely to be a problem with Longbottom.

"Do I have to go over it again? Or would you rather I explained things with the help of some exciting hand movements? Perhaps an interpretive dance?"

If this was Potter, they would have regressed to insults both physical and verbal by now, but Longbottom is harder to annoy. Draco has long felt this to be a flaw in his character.

But Longbottom is shaking his head, frowning, and Draco knows he's about to say something stupid.

"But why is my saving your life such a big deal? There was a war on, and lots of people were in danger, lots of people managed not to die thanks to some other people, so what makes this so important? You're not even the only person I covered that day!"

And there you go. Draco grinds his teeth just a little.

"Do you seriously think I would be here talking about this, talking to you, if it wasn't necessary?"

A short pause, where Longbottom looks like he's trying to think, brow furrowing, mouth pursing into a confused line. Draco resists the urge to smack him in the head.

"Okay, well, where did you find out about this?"

Rolling his eyes, on the other hand, is perfectly acceptable.

"I read a number of books on it. It's called research. Perhaps you're familiar with the term?"

A slight smile rises to Longbottom's lips. Maybe he really is retarded.

"Perhaps you could show me your research?"

After a few moments of suspicious glaring Draco hands over his stack of notes. Longbottom leans back on the sofa and starts to read. Meticulously, page after page is put aside and carefully placed on top of the coffee table. Draco entertains himself by deciphering the swirling curves and tiny dots that is his handwriting upside down.

_blood against blood…ancient magic…sacrifice…resistance to spell…family curse…recognise as natural enemy… produces imbalance…weakening…resulting in death._

Longbottom wets his lips as he reads and Draco turns to look at the carpet. He's never thought of Longbottom as a physical being and he'd rather not start now.

"Would you mind if I asked Hermione about this?"

Draco's eyes snap back to his face.

"Why would you need to ask bloody Granger about this? You think I want random people talking about my business? Bad enough that I have to tell you."

"Well, she might be able to think of something, so you wouldn't have to do this. And she won't tell anyone if I ask her not to."

"But she'll know!"

Calm brown eyes, peering at him over the papers. There's something almost Lupinesque in the way Longbottom refuses to be goaded.

"If you'd really rather I didn't, I won't. But wouldn't it be worth it in case she can help?"

"You think I haven't gone through every possible option? This is not something I'm taking lightly!"

"I know."

Another silence, while Draco grabs hold of a cushion and pulls at the threads.

"Fine."

"Great. I'll let you know what she says. Mind if I keep hold of these, for the time being?"

"Do what you like."

Longbottom stands up, shuffles his feet a little, and makes a fake coughing noise. At the door, he turns and looks back, curious.

"I didn't realise you were gay, Malfoy."

Draco's hands pause on the cushion.

"I'm not."

He doesn't move again until long after Longbottom has gone.

: :

The position of the body servant is complex and difficult. It has a long history in wizarding tradition - who, after all, would choose to offer his soul, that is, his magic, instead of his body? - but it has fallen in disuse in recent years. Such service does not seem to be required these days, although it should be admitted that the spells of sacrifice, which usually prompt the need for service, are equally rare.

The servant of the body must cater to the needs of the body, as is expected: bedsport, cleansing, warmth and nourishment. But it is not a mere mechanical offering. The spells required for the service produce a link between the servant and the master, which passes on knowledge of the body, of what is needed or desired at the time, but also creates the will to offer service. To be a servant of the body means to gain knowledge of oneself as a body, as a physical being with sensations and urges.

It also permits knowledge to be shared through the body.

: :

They argued for weeks about the living arrangements. Draco felt, quite naturally, that Malfoy Manor would and should be a preferred location for any wizard to inhabit, but Longbottom proved to be surprisingly tenacious. Still, he was wrong, and Draco would have continued arguing until Doomsday if Granger hadn't smacked him by the side of the head and told him, loudly and repeatedly, that he would die if he didn't agree. Apparently, the spell is very clear on who is the master and who is the servant, and so Draco packed his suitcases and had his house-elves deliver them to 127, Leithifold Square.

The townhouse is small and inelegant, and Draco has many opinions about wizards who don't take their position in society (and the consequent need to impress others) seriously. He keeps them to himself, though, and tries to concentrate on what he'll need to do tonight instead. What he has tried to teach himself to do, although the books Blaise had sent over were clearly inferior in quality and surely there is no need for quite that much intimacy. There are some places tongues are not meant to go.

Longbottom leads him to a small bedroom upstairs, with pale blue curtains and white sheets. It looks terribly comforting, until Draco remembers he won't be sleeping there.

Longbottom shrugs and spreads his hands in a pointless sort of way.

"I figured you'd like a place for yourself every now and then. Or in case you get sick or something."

"What do you mean, sick? What are you planning to do to me, you freak?"

There's a flicker of a grin at that and honestly, hasn't anybody taught Longbottom that there's a time and place for amusement and this is not it? Draco sighs.

"Nothing, I'm not going to…look, do you want to come downstairs and have some tea? We should talk about what…what we're going to do."

Longbottom holds the door open for him, and it isn't until they've reached the bottom of the stairs that it occurs to Draco he's being treated like a skittish girl.

Strangely, that thought isn't as disturbing as it should be.

: :

The tea is still steaming in their mugs when Draco falls on his knees and tries to fumble at Longbottom's robes. He doesn't get very far, though; there's a startled squeak and then he's being pushed away, falling on his back on the carpet. Longbottom's eyes are wide and there's redness spreading over his cheeks, his ears, his neck. They're both breathing hard.

Longbottom doesn't ask what he was doing, and Draco is grateful for that.

"I'm not a rapist."

Longbottom glares at him like it's important that Draco understands this, the line of his jaw strained and ungiving. Despite the blushing he looks hard, the way people looked just before battle, the way Draco himself used to look before vomiting and bracing himself with fortifying Firewhiskey. He's seen Longbottom in action, in flashes of screaming and mud and unending cold, but it's still a surprise to remember that Longbottom was a soldier too, that he's killed and fought with all the rest of ridiculous Gryffindors.

But the war is over and Draco still hasn't survived.

"Look, I know you don't mean to, but we need to get this done, and basically I need to get you off, and so I figured this is the easiest way…"

"Not like this."

There's something almost scary about how intense Longbottom is about this. If it weren't a choice between his virtue and his life, Draco would be pleased.

"What, you want to ply me with pretty flowers and woo me like a pretty girl?"

Sadly, his imagination, which is inappropriate at the best of times, chooses this moment to present Draco with an image of himself dressed in a pink evening gown, with a suited and neck-tied Longbottom offering him a bouquet of flowers. From the smirk on Longbottom's face, he's seeing something similar.

"Would you like to be wooed, Malfoy?"

Low and breathless with what must be laughter, Longbottom sounds different, and suddenly Draco is afraid of the way Longbottom is watching him.

He doesn't answer. After a while, he rises from the floor, sits back on the sofa, and picks up his now-cold tea.

"I was thinking, maybe, a bath? I mean, I could take a bath, and you could wash my back or something. That would satisfy the conditions of the spell."

Draco doesn't look up, just nods and drinks his tea as Longbottom goes to draw a bath.

: :

 

The bathtub is an incongruous thing, all swelling lines and elegant clawfeet. Longbottom moves like a Victorian gentleman, with almost maidenly modesty as he checks the temperature of the water, folds over his dressing gown (Draco averts his eyes), and steps in.

There's still extra flesh, not puppy fat, but padding to the muscles Draco can see moving in Longbottom's shoulders and arms. Skin pink from the hot water, a few moles along his spine, and dark hair curling at the nape.

Draco is careful to sit facing Longbottom's back.

The noises of splashing water, the quiet humming when Longbottom forgets that he's not alone, make Draco comfortable and drowsy. It's only when Longbottom calls his name, a hesitant query that he remembers where he is, and why.

Draco takes a long breath and grabs the proffered sponge. He rubs it with soap, something green and pine smelling, and crouches, then kneels (because ouch, his knees, and he must remember to bring a cushion next time) by the tub.

Longbottom is quiet when Draco washes him, silent and still but it's nevertheless difficult to forget that this is a living thing under his hands, a body, a man. The skin is softer than he'd expected, not in the way girls are soft, but not unpleasant either. There's no body hair that he can see, but Draco feels a few soft bristles whenever his fingers brush, accidentally, against bare skin.

He doesn't know how long they stay there, the repeated motion of soak, squeeze, rub tuning off all other thoughts, but the water is cold when they finish, and Longbottom's back is red from more than the heat.

Draco stands up and turns away. He hears the sounds of Longbottom rising from the water, picking up his towel and drying himself, moving across the bathroom, and dripping all over the floor. The smell of laundry and wet flesh fill the room, and Draco realises that his clothes haven't been dry for a while.

"I'll just…"

His mind is riddled with scary thoughts about changing into pyjamas and whether it's late enough to go to bed, and where, and how, oh god. Luckily, Longbottom doesn't seem to require elucidation, he just waves his hand and says, "Yeah, see you in a bit."

And that's that. Draco nods, at Longbottom's freshly scrubbed back, and flees.

: :

Longbottom doesn't snore, but there are small snuffling noises, a few sighs pressed into the pillow. He doesn't try to touch Draco, keeps strictly to his side of the bed. They are both wearing long-sleeved pyjamas, which, considering that it's summer, is a bit ridiculous, but Draco appreciates the necessity for it.

He should feel relieved that Longbottom hasn't even tried to touch him, that his own attempts at sexual interaction were refused. He's already freaked out by the idea of sharing a bed with another man, and surely it would be worse if there were actual touching involved.

It doesn't feel worse, though, when Draco moves quietly closer, and brushes his nose against Neville's arm. It feels good, somehow, a relief in the pressure that has been building up inside him for weeks. Something to do with the spell, no doubt.

He stays like that till morning and wakes to find Longbottom's hand warm and heavy on his back.

: :

Apparently Longbottom has spent a lot of time thinking up mostly innocent things for them to do. Food is important, he states as he hands Draco a salad bowl and a cucumber to be diced. Draco makes a few remarks house-elves and civilisation, but settles down to his chopping quickly enough. Longbottom is standing next to him by the counter, their elbows touching every now and then, and it occurs to Draco that he should be grateful for Longbottom's thoughtfulness. Naturally, he squashes the thought.

Then Longbottom yelps and flails and there is blood on the tomatoes, and Draco realises that he must do something, find bandages, a salve, something. Longbottom waits calmly, his eyes patient while Draco has a frustration attack about the limits of magic during his service, then allows himself to be inexpertly cleaned and bandaged, and lead to sit on the sofa as Draco makes some tea. He eyes the kettle suspiciously, but when Longbottom explains its use without making derogatory comments, Draco follows his instructions and produces two steaming mugs with some pride.

The accident (Draco has decided that Longbottom, generous as he is, would not cut himself merely to provide Draco with an opportunity for healing) means that Draco gets to practice his chopping with all the other items on the menu. He manages not to cut himself in the process, but it's a close thing. There's satisfaction bubbling under his skin at the thought that he has prepared their food, though.

He does, however, develop a distaste for peeling potatoes.

: :

They wash each other's feet. Neville carries two large copper bowls into the bathroom, then starts to drag in chairs, and it's only afterwards that it occurs to Draco he could have helped. He pours them both a generous glass of tawny port, which causes Neville to raises his eyebrows even as he accepts his goblet. Draco takes a sip, grimaces at the taste (Neville's liquor cabinet is not well- or newly stocked), then sits down and takes off his shoes and socks.

It's kind of a silly thing to do, and they end up splashing each with water, but at least Draco has stopped shuddering with dread at the idea of touching someone's toes, or of someone touching his toes. Neville's feet are as inelegant as the rest of him, but there is something compelling by the unabashedly square bones, the strong muscles in his calves. Draco makes sure there's lots of soap everywhere (including his hair and Neville's shirt), before reaching out for skin, but it's not so bad, and he likes the way Neville's breathing goes carefully steady after a while.

The sight of Neville on his knees before Draco, though, with Draco's feet in his hands, is disconcerting. Neville is gentle and deliberate, rubbing soap into every groove and wrinkle with unhurried ease, teasing out the tired flesh. Draco feels himself blushing and he's not sure if it's because a part of his body, a part usually covered by cloth, is naked and being touched by someone. Or if it's the intensity, the way Neville observes every shattered breath and twitch of toe, the way he doesn't stop.

Afterwards, Draco can't look away, can't stop trying to find sense in what just happened. But Neville is now blushing himself, and all but runs away to hide in the preparation of tea.

: :

Draco wakes, again, to find his face smashed into Neville's arm and his heart pounding. Neville is sleeping, breathing deep into his pillow, his forehead glistening with sweat.

There's nothing appealing about him.

Yet the flash of skin above his pyjama-collar is calling for Draco's fingers, the vulnerable flesh at his nape somehow too compelling to be resisted. Draco raises his hand, hesitates, then strokes soft fingers on Neville's neck. It's warm and moist and private, and Draco's terrified.

Neville snuffles in his sleep, and Draco's hand stills.

He knows it's the spell that makes him do this, makes him want things like this. The humid air of the bedroom is claustrophobic and Draco kind of wants to run away screaming, but he wants to touch Neville more. Not more than this, just a brush of the thumb, a flickering caress on the spine, but not less than that either.

Draco has stopped moving and started thinking about himself, and why this is important, when he realises that the beat under his hand is not so still. And that Neville is watching him.

All air seems to leave his body as Draco tries desperately to draw breath, to propel himself to move and get up and run, but then Neville's hand has risen to grip his arm and keep him in place, keep his fingers in place.

They watch each other, wary grey eyes meeting thoughtful brown ones, until Neville takes a long breath and slowly pushes Draco onto his back. The covers are pulled down, pooled around their hips and Draco looks on in mingled fear and excitement as the top of his pyjamas is lifted up and gathered at his neck. Neville doesn't turn his eyes away from Draco and the feel of his warm hand on Draco's belly is devastating.

He doesn't look away when Neville's fingers begin to map out his body, the knuckles kneading his chest, pressing hand-shaped marks on the flesh of his belly. A shocking wet tongue comes to lap at his nipples and Draco's doesn't dare move, doesn't dare speak or breathe or anything other than lie there. When a questing hand finally curves around his cock, the whole of Neville's body is pressed tight against him, toothpaste and intimacy in the breath against his jaw.

When he comes, Neville swallows his cry into his mouth, and that makes him cry out harder.

: :

The service of the body is always a matter of intermingling, of inhabiting one's body to the full in order to render assistance to someone else and reach their soul, their magic, through their body. Wizards are spiritual race - not that they seek enlightenment or inner peace, but they put their spirit to use - and it is easy for them to get forget that magic is also a physical thing, of thing of the earth.

Strange alliances have been forged through the service of the body. But magic responds to magic as blood responds to blood and flesh to flesh, and it is there where the essence of witchcraft and wizardry lies.

Blood. Magic. Flesh.


End file.
